


The Scar

by HomunculusTrashParty



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomunculusTrashParty/pseuds/HomunculusTrashParty
Summary: Kylo Ren looks in the mirror and thinks about how the scene in the snow could have gone differently.





	The Scar

His first shower with the bandage removed is painful, but bearable. The days of being carefully watched by medical personnel and General Hux have receded into a present during which he’s able to have some measure of privacy, some breathing room. Meditating on his failure in a hospital bed, no matter how privileged, felt impossible. All he’d wanted was to leave, damn the consequences—pain was part of life, it was a necessary part of life, especially his own. Without pain, where would he be?

He touches the scarred, burned flesh of his side and has to resist digging in his fingers. He feels the call of the Dark, beckoning him to marry it once again through the same sacred purification he had felt when he left his past behind, the life that had held him back. It still followed him, and soon it would all be gone forever—the Republic, the Jedi, the memories, fading away.

All except for her. 

Kylo Ren pounds his fist into the wall of the shower, a furious growl accompanying it as he hears a sickening pop from his knuckles. No damage. He wants damage, to see the proof of his own growth and rebirth in the scars on his body, the pain lighting up every nerve and awakening him to a higher level of consciousness. Tears would have stung his eyes along with the fury and heartache that threatened to divide him, but now the wounds have closed, uneasily. 

He scrubs his face roughly with a washcloth, too roughly, and has to remind himself that any damages require a return to the medical bay, potentially for even longer this time. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, water running down his scalp, long dark hair straightened out by the weight dragging it down. He’d spent several minutes scrubbing his scalp with his fingers, the delicate woodsy scent of his shampoo filling the steam that built up on the mirror and walls. People assisted him with hygiene for a while, but it had required all but incapacitating him. He couldn’t handle the shame of defeat, after all of these years of relentless pursuit of perfection, to have someone untrained come out of nowhere, break into his head like that—

He punches the wall again, and again, and again, until the tile cracks and blood runs down his knuckles, giving the shower runoff just the slightest tint as it disappears down the drain. He’ll find her, he’ll bring her to justice, he’ll tear her apart. He has to. 

He finishes washing his body, rinses one more time and shuts the water off, noticing that his knuckles are still bleeding. He dries his body and stands naked in front of the mirror, using his towel to wring out the excess water in his hair and throwing a hard, sullen look at the deep red scar on his face. At least it's fading quickly, thanks to the bacta treatments.

The emotional scars and wounded pride, however, could very well last a lifetime.

Rey. He'd found out her name when he was inside her head. Kylo looks himself in the eye and for a second contemplates punching himself in the face through the mirror. He instead opts for tracing the scar with his fingertips. It is a spiritual reminder. Every time he looks at it, he reasons, he should remember the scavenger and his defeat. She was the only one to ever defeat him. 

He must have her.

He loses himself in fantasy, imagining seeing her once again, slashing her pretty face with his saber, leaving her scarred and wrecked, like him. He'd force her to her knees, or to the earth on her back, as she furiously kicked and snarled at him, hurling curses and making pathetic, amateur attempts at removing him with the Force.

 _No,_ he'd say. _I win this time. You're mine. Forget the Light. Don't give in. Come to the Dark. You need a teacher. You need me._

And the Light in her eyes would fade, slowly, as she accepted his words as truth. The Dark would replace it, tinging her pupils with gold. She could be reborn. She could be powerful. She could outdo him, and would make an incredible ally.

He realizes he's half-hard, and as he presses his fingers into the scar on his face, his hand closes around his cock, tugging the foreskin up over the head and back down again with a near-silent breath.

This usually happens after long and unsuccessful missions, and especially after day-long meditations, after he fasts himself weak and dizzy, feeling colder and colder and stronger than ever. His body needs release from emotion—always, always, when he is nothing but emotion, nothing but passion. Through passion, he gains strength. Through strength, he gains power. Through power, he gains victory. 

Through victory, his chains are broken. 

_The Force shall free me,_ he prays, closing his eyes. _The Force shall free me. I'm furious. I need pain. I need to hurt, to grow stronger, to destroy her. To rebuild her again, from pieces, after I break her. I need to break her, like she's broken me._

_She needs me. She needs a teacher. I will hurt her, I will break her._

His fist jerks harder, faster, each stroke ending on a twist, making the muscles of his arm tighten and jump under damp skin. Dark waves of hair flow over his eyes as his head bows.

He replays the scene in the snow over and over again until he gets it right. FN-2187 is dead and bleeding, Rey is weakened, struggling to hold on. She falls. He's there, on top of her, and both of their sabers are hooked to his belt. It's _his_ , it was Darth Vader's, it is his _birthright_ , how _dare_ she take it away from him—

She's slowly fading into unconsciousness, and he touches her temple with two gloved fingers—

_Join me. Be my student. I know you—I've seen it in your mind. You've always wanted a better life than this._

And her eyelids flutter closed, and he feels wind surrounding them—not the cold of the snow, nor the daze of hypothermia, but the chill of the Dark. It unites them, as one whole, the way he's never felt connected to anyone. It's as close as making love, but deeper, better. Better than love, limiting, weakening, could ever be.

When she opens her eyes, she smiles up at him.

 _You're powerful_ , she breathes. _Show me the ways of the Force_ , she says, _and I will never let you down. Turn my pain and loneliness into strength._ Her eyes gleam. _Unless you're too weak to give it to me?_

 _Never_ , he retorts. _Through me, and only me, can you ever achieve greatness._

 _I'm immune to the Light_ , she promises. _I'm yours to command._

He shakes, arm tense, and he cums all over his chest and the bathroom sink at her words. 

As he comes down from his orgasm, breathing hard and trembling, he looks in the mirror at his scar one more time and vows to himself.

_I will not fail again._


End file.
